


The Wolf of King's Landing

by stopdaenerys2k15



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopdaenerys2k15/pseuds/stopdaenerys2k15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya is kidnapped by House Targaryen in the war to retake their throne. Once Aegon is seated on the Iron Throne, he gives House Stark a choice: sacrifice their lives or sacrifice Arya to live as a ward in the Red Keep for the rest of her days. (Rated M for violence and sexual content in later chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I've ever written, seeing as I usually focus on original works. Aegon and Arya's ages are slightly fudged. All constructive criticism and comments are welcome!

The cloaked thief trying to steal their coin was good, but not good enough. Aegon watched him slink around the dark room in near silence. The man would have gotten away with it, had Aegon not been lying restlessly awake in his bed that night - it was his last night in Braavos before they mobilized their army to take Westeros. Jon Connington had told him to get a good night’s sleep tonight if nothing else, so naturally Aegon hadn’t gotten a wink.

As Aegon drew his knife from under his pillow, the thief turned from his riffling to stare in the direction of the bed. He came closer. Aegon took the opportunity to jerk upright out of bed and slam his elbow into the thief’s face. He went down with a loud thump and a sharp gasp. Aegon leaped from his bed, wide awake, and onto the thief. As he raised his weapon he ripped the hood from the thief’s face -

And lowered the knife. Big grey eyes, high cheekbones, pink lips, long dark hair.“You’re a woman?”

The thief’s scowl managed to look threatening even when she was pinned under him at knifepoint. Instead of responding, she struggled to launch him off of her, but he, being the stronger of the two, slammed her shoulders to the floor with his hands.

“I’ll give you five seconds to run away,” he growled.

“What? Can’t bring yourself to kill a woman?” she spat back. “Fool. In those five seconds I’ll spill your throat on the floor. Now get off of me.”

“After that threat -”

The door to Aegon’s bunk flew open, and they both angled their necks up to see who was in the doorway.

“Griff? What’s going on in here?” Jon was frowning in front of the open door. His eyes, baggy with tiredness, went from the open window to Aegon and the woman on the floor, and darkened. He drew his knife.

“Wait -” Aegon began. But Jon shoved him off of her and grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, pulling her to her feet. Her knotted, dirty braid came even more messier as he slammed her against the wall with a hold on her throat. “Jon -”

But he found that he did not have to explain himself.

“Lyanna?” Jon breathed as he took in her face. “Lyanna Stark?”

The thief spat at Jon. “Lyanna Stark is dead.”

“You have her look.”

The woman said nothing, just clawed at his hand on her neck.

“What is it, Jon?” Aegon said from the floor where Jon had shoved him.

“She may not be Lyanna, but this woman is a Stark.”

“I’m no Stark,” the thief said. “I am no one at all.”

“Well, No One looks very much like a Stark.” And without warning, Jon swung his fist at her head. She fell limp.

“Jon!” Aegon shouted.

“We can’t waste an opportunity like this. Help me bind her wrists. We’re taking her with us to Westeros. When we win the Iron Throne, she will make a valuable hostage.”


	2. Sixth of His Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this story, the living Stark children (Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon) are all gathered together, and have held Winterfell for a couple years now. And Daenerys's storyline just... doesn't exist. By the way, everyone has been incredibly great so far, so thank you! I should be able to update weekly, but this is an incredibly busy season for those of us still in school. *she writes, as if she actually values the merits of schoolwork over free writing*

Arya’s forehead was throbbing when she woke up. She was wearing the same dirty breeches and loose shirt she usually did. She rubbed her temples as she rose, and placed her bare feet on the wood floor. Then she realized -

_Wood floors?_

This was not the House of Black and White. And was the ground swaying beneath her? The last thing she remembered seeing was a man’s fist coming for her head, and some blue-haired prick that had called him Jon…. “Shit.” She rushed to the door across the little room and jerked on the handle. It wouldn’t give. She turned behind her; clear morning light streamed through a circular window. And beyond the glass, there was nothing but open sea.

Not only did she have no idea where she was, but she was also on a moving ship.

“Shit, _shit,”_ she repeated, running her hands over her hips where she kept her daggers and Needle. They were gone.

She returned to the door and desperately tried to open it again. “Let me out of here or I swear to the old gods and the new, I’ll sink this entire ship -”

The door flew inward, and she backward a step. “I’d like to see you try. Good to see you’re awake.” The man named Jon stood in front of her, two companions on either side of him.

Were they meant to be _guards?_

“What the hell is going on? Where is my sword?”

“You will not see that sword until you prove yourself trustworthy,” Jon said.

“Not if I find it before then,” she bit.

He ignored her challenge. “You’re going above deck to speak to the king.”

Arya scoffed. “Which one? There were about twenty last I checked.”

“Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name.”

_“Aegon Targaryen?”_ Well, _that_ was new.

 

* * *

 

“Aegon Fucking Targaryen.” She shook her head and barked a mirthless laugh as she took a seat on the barrel in between the alleged king and his shield - a red-haired man she’d heard called Duck, watching over their conversation. The sun over the ship was making her hot and irritable, and her manner more and more unpleasant.  
On the one night Arya hadn’t worn a face other than her own. On the one night her target had been awake. On the one night the lost Targaryen king had taken it upon himself to return to Westeros and take the Iron Throne, she’d had to get caught.

This brilliantly blue-haired man, who didn’t look a day over two-and-twenty, was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, if his story could be believed. “So… _Your Grace_ means to take Westeros,” she said, examining her grimy nails. Only Arya could make his title sound like such a mockery.

“Yes,” he said, crossing his arms in defense. He leaned back against the ship’s railing. She edged her feet away from his as they slid close.

“And you believe that by holding me hostage you will win the allegiance of House Stark? I don’t know who you think I am,” Arya lied, “but I am sure I will do little to help your cause.”

“If that is so, you will have nothing to worry about when the Starks answer our summons. They surrendered peacefully once before, so why not a second time?” He said it with confidence, but the way he avoided her eyes suggested a flicker of doubt.

“When they find that you summoned them from Winterfell to King’s Landing for a girl you kidnapped from Braavos, they will not be happy.”

“Neither will you,” Duck snickered. “Because the king has no use for a girl who only looks like a Stark.”

“I know. That’s why His Grace should return me to Braavos.” She glared up at him. “Preferably _alive.”_

“However this war ends, whether I die or become king, I’m never setting foot in Braavos again,” he answered. “So if you truly are just a commoner from Braavos, you’re welcome to find your way back on your own.”

“If not,” said Duck, “I assure you you’ll enjoy your life in the Red Keep.”

The thought made her so sick she heaved her stomach’s contents over the side of the ship.

 

* * *

 

 

They won the war in less than two moons. Aegon’s army had the numbers, the strategy and the element of surprise, and soon, the favor of the minority of smallfolk who actually cared who sat the Throne. The clumsy Baratheon rule and the rumored incest that ruined House Lannister gave the Westerosi no one to turn to but him.

They overtook King’s Landing first. Cersei and her sycophants were put to the sword, her children exiled to Casterly Rock.

The night they settled in the Red Keep, the young woman who claimed she was no one was given plain living quarters and three maids, and Aegon sent his first raven as the King of the Andals and the First Men.

 

* * *

 

 

“A royal summons?” Bran asked, snatching the envelope from his sister’s trembling hands.

Sansa nodded, and she knew as she looked upon the grave faces of her brothers that she was not alone in recalling the last time the Starks were summoned to the south.

 

* * *

 

In the weeks since the conquest and the Starks’ arrival, Arya’s golden Braavosi tan had been reduced to something closer to the northern pallor she’d had before she left Westeros nine years ago. Out of pure spite and stubbornness she had stayed in her quarters since they were given to her, and to her slight dismay, no one seemed to care.  
But now she stood beside the king and his lords, forced into an ill-fitting southron dress on the steps of the Red Keep, awaiting the Stark riders. The woman who stepped out of the wheelhouse and the young man who rode before it were not who she remembered as her siblings. Of course, Sansa’s hair was still Tully red and her eyes Tully blue, but she was taller and her face was more angled and her breast was fuller. She was twenty now, and a woman grown. Bran was six-and-ten, and paralyzed as ever, but sat his horse with a confidence he had grown into since she’d last seen him.

As soon as Sansa laid eyes on Arya, any hope she had of covertly convincing her sister not to identify her were gone. “I didn’t think it could be true,” Sansa whispered, lower lip trembling.

The sisters wrapped their arms tightly around each other for the first time in years. Arya felt Sansa’s watery sniffle in between her neck and shoulder. “All those times I wished you dead, and then you disappeared from King’s Landing the day that Father…. I thought…”

“I know,” Arya said. “I missed you more than I ever thought I _could_ miss you.”

Bran was helped down from his steed to embrace his sister. They had an equally watery reunion. “Rickon and Jon are sorry they couldn’t come. But Rickon is too young, and Jon has duties as Lord Commander. Besides, to bring a bastard to court…”

“I understand. Next time.”

“Well?” A voice from behind interrupted their conversation. Jon Connington asked, “Do you recognize this woman as Arya Stark?”

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa answered, gripping her sister’s hand. “This is my sister Arya.”

 

* * *

 

They feasted in the Great Hall, Arya seated between Sansa and Rickon a few spaces down from the king. “I'll be a prisoner," Arya muttered, sawing angrily at the meat on her plate.

"You'll be a _ward,_ Arya," Sansa corrected.

"Call it whatever you want, Sansa. I’ll still be living out the rest of my days in the place where our lord father was beheaded. Where they tortured you, Sansa, for years."  
Bran patted her hand. “Yes. But at least you’ll be living.”


	3. An Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some substantial aegon/arya interaction.
> 
> Please excuse the lack of medieval terminology in their speech; I'm WAY too lazy for that. We're just gonna say that for this story, everyone speaks in a somewhat contemporary manner.

"Aegon, it's been two weeks." Two weeks since the Stark siblings had left King's Landing. Two weeks since any one of his court had seen Lady Arya out of her rooms. "You must do _something_ , if only for the sake of appearances," Jon insisted from the Hand's seat of the small council.

Aegon scoffed. "Why me? If she wants to sulk, she's free to sulk all she wants. She'll come around in time."

"Why you? Because you are the king. And if we let this go on any longer the people will start to talk. They’ll wonder if she's sick. Or worse - if we are mistreating our guest from one of the most loyal Great Houses."

"What would you have me _do?”_ Aegon asked, nearly dragging the word into a whine. “Force her to come out of her rooms?"

"I'm not asking you to be her best friend,” Jon said. “I only ask that you to convince everyone that she enjoys the Red Keep."

"But -"

"But nothing. I’ve just decided you’re going to invite her to dinner tonight.”

“I am _not -”_

Jon rang the servants’ bell on the table, interrupting Aegon’s protest. When one of the young squires showed up looking windswept and out of breath beside Jon’s chair, he said, “Summon Lady Arya for dinner with the king tonight. His Grace’s express orders.”

The squire paled; despite the little time she had spent in King’s Landing, most servants in the Red Keep knew how vicious Lady Arya could get when she was irritated (which seemed to be more often than not). “What if she says no, milord?”

“Do not take ‘no’ for an answer, not even if you have to drag her out screaming."

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Dinner?_ That's a funny jape."

The squire flinched at her near-feral growl. “Yes, milady.” Behind him, three maids bustled in through the door and began to work on undoing her braid and removing her clothes.

“But what if I don’t want to - _stop that,”_ she gasped as one of them tugged at a particularly ratty knot in her hair.

“His Grace says you must. He will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

She narrowed her eyes at that. “Fine,” she conceded, and let the servants put her in the bath and scrub at her skin and hair, if only because she was curious as to what could possibly be so urgent as to request dinner with her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She was wearing breeches, Aegon noted. And then immediately after he thought it, he wondered why he expected her to wear a dress, when he hadn’t seen her in one since he’d met her. “Lady Arya,” he said as his chamber door closed behind her. The two of them were alone in the small room.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she groused, noisily dragging the empty chair across from him, and plopping down in the seat. Her braid was wet; she’d just come from a bath.

Arya was seemingly oblivious to Aegon’s desperate inner search for something to say. He ran his hand through his hair, now back to its natural silver after the blue had run out. It was ten minutes of scraping food around plates and awkwardly catching her eye and looking away before he opened his mouth. “I was thinking -” he began, as she said, “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

He scowled. “Like what?” And then he added for politeness, “… my lady.”

“You keep switching between looking nervous and indifferent. And angry.”

He hesitated. Then he said, “Apologies, Lady Arya.”

“Fine,” she grunted, going back to slicing her meat. “Don’t explain. So… dinner. What… what made you want my company tonight?”

“I just really… wanted to… get to know you….” An obvious lie. But to say _Jon Connington forced me because you haven’t shown your face in weeks_ seemed rude.

She was pursing her mouth to keep from smiling at his pathetic attempt at conversation. “ _Right._ Hate to disappoint, but I’m not that interesting.”

“Of course you are. You’re Lady Arya Stark.”

“Yes. I know my name is of great interest to you. That’s why I’m here, after all.”

“Um… how long were you in Braavos?” he tried.

She took a moment to consider. “Since I was eleven, so… seven years, more or less.”

He nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. He mentally noted that he would need to order someone to flay Jon Connington, just so he could feel how agonizing this conversation was.

“You’re doing it again,” she said after another silent minute. “The nervous-angry-indifferent thing.”

He schooled his features. “Sorry.”

“Well. Good talk, Your Grace.” She gave him a nod and a grimace that was probably meant to be a smile, and stood to leave. “I am going to retire to my chambers, if you don’t mind.”

It hadn’t even been half an hour. Aegon couldn’t say he was sad to see her go, but he knew Jon’s whisperers would inform him of the hour she left, and then the Hand would never let him hear the end of it. “Stay,” he said.

“This was… fun.” Now it was his turn to smirk at her lie. “But I really am tired, so I think I’m going to -”

He hated to say it, but he was desperate to keep her in the room: “Well technically you can’t leave. Not if I order you to stay.”

She narrowed her eyes so thin that he didn’t think she could see him anymore. _“Seriously?”_ she hissed, and strode toward the door anyway.

“No - wait!” he called, her hand on the door. “What do you like to do? That doesn’t involve sulking in your room for weeks on end?”

Her hold loosened on the door handle. “I like riding,” she admitted reluctantly, her back still to him. “Swordfighting.”

“Oh yes, I recall you carrying a sword in Braavos.”

“Yes. Your Hand took it from me sometime between him knocking me out and throwing me in a ship cabin. I haven’t seen it since.” _But you probably have._ The words were unspoken, but heavily implied.

“I could get it for you.”

“You _could?”_ She turned around so fast her braid flew in the air. Then she cleared her her throat, repeated the words slower and quieter to sound less eager. “You could?”

He didn’t immediately address the question. “You said you enjoy riding?”

She nodded.

“Lord Connington wishes us to spend more time together.”

“Why? Is that why you invited me to dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Listen, I know where your sword is,” he lied. “But it could be very hard or very easy to get it, depending on -”

“I’ll go riding with you. I’ll go riding with you a thousand times. I’ll go riding with you around the entire city. Just get me Needle.” She turned once again to leave.

“Tomorrow at the stables, Lady Arya. Noon.”

“Yes. Of course. Good night, Your Grace.”

And a moment after she closed the door behind her, he heard a muffled, joyous giggle.

It was the first time she'd laughed since he'd met her.


	4. The Slow Rider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So from now on I'm going to tryyyy to post once midweek (Wed.-Thurs. range) and once on the weekend (anytime from Fri. to Sun.). But I'd rather post something late and good than something on time and mediocre, so if I can't maintain that schedule, then that's why. And btw I know NOTHINGGG about horses so that's why the terms are kinda vague.

She met him at the stables at noon, just like she’d promised. The stableboys had already saddled his horse, and were working on saddling hers. When they were done, they guided both horses out of the stables.

“Lady Arya,” Aegon said once the stableboys left. “I hope you’ve come ready to smile prettily for Lord Connington.”

“I’ve come ready to receive Needle.”

“You’ll get your sword,” he assured her. “Do you need help saddling?”

She glared daggers at him. She knew he was trying to be courteous, and she knew she was making it difficult for him, but his offer was just insulting, especially because he was the reason she was in the Red Keep riding horses with him for her sword in the first place. “Don’t be _stupid.”_

“Fine,” Aegon said. “Just trying to help.”

“I know how to sit a horse, Your Grace.” And she did so just then, placing her foot in the stirrup and tossing a leg over the horse’s body. He did the same. “I could do it in my sleep.”

“That I’d like to see,” Aegon snided. He encouraged his horse to a canter, leaving Arya a few feet behind.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, rushing up to meet him.

A couple courtiers in the yard turned to stare at the sharpness of her words.

“Lower your voice; people have to believe we like spending time together,” Aegon murmured.

“Well, it wouldn’t be so hard if you weren’t so infuriating,” she said, but heeded his words anyway. “Answer the question.”

“It _means_ that I bet you’re not as good as you’re letting on,” he said.

“ _Oh,_ ” she growled, then forced a pleasant smile at the people that looked their way. “I can prove it. If that’s what you want.”

“All I want to prove is that you do more than pace around your rooms all day.”

“I am being further reminded of why I do so with every passing moment we spend together.”  She dug her feet into her steed’s sides, speeding ahead of Aegon in the direction of the godswood.

“Lady Arya, wait!” he called.

“Call me ‘Lady’ again, I dare you,” she challenged, not looking back as her horse moved even faster beneath her. “Let’s see who can make it to the godswood faster.”

She was ahead by several yards, but lost all her advantage at the portcullis between this yard and the one that would lead into the godswood, and she was forced to stop before she and her horse crashed. The king, of course, ordered the portcullis to be raised just in time to maintain his momentum and charge past her. “You did that on purpose!” she yelled to the back of his silver head.

He turned back for a moment, triumphant grin nearly feral, to tease, “What am I supposed to call you, if not ‘my lady’? Arya the Slow Rider?”

That raised her pulse. “Do you try to be this irritating?” she said, leveling her horse with his. “Or is that just your personality?”

“You know,” he said over the gallops of the horses, whipping his reins for more speed, “you’re pretty irritating too.”

“Says the man who dragged me across the world without my consent, and then sentenced me to live apart from my family and home for the rest of my life.”

“That wasn’t my decision, Lady - _Watch out!”_

She glanced at what was ahead of her for a second before she felt her horse’s ankle falter. The horse rolled its ankle on a rock, and the two of them went flying to the ground.

The king snapped his horse’s reins back so tightly she could hear it, even though she was staring at the rock that had caused her tumble. “Are you alright? You’re bleeding,” he said, his horse breathing heavily from the run.

“I’m fine,” she spat. She tried to push herself to standing, but her left knee buckled on her as soon as she put weight on it.

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m _fine._ ” On her knees, she hobbled to her horse, who was wheezing on the ground.

“No, leave it. I’ll get one of the stableboys to take care of it for us. You need the infirmary.”

“Then how are we supposed to get there?”

He rolled his eyes and hopped off his horse, and stuck out his hand to her for the second time that day. “Get on mine.”

Reluctantly, she accepted his hand and he helped her stand. “I’m going to have to lift you up -”

“Just get on with it,” she said. And he did, gripping her around the waist with a stronger hold than she would ever have guessed, based on his wiry figure. He placed her on the horse’s back, and she slid back to make space for him to sit (and for a healthy few inches between them).

“Put your arms around me,” he said as he took his place in the saddle.

“Is that really necessary?”

“This isn’t the time to be squeamish, Lady Arya; just _put your arms around me._ There’s not enough room on the saddle.”

She did so reluctantly, even though she knew he was right, getting rid of the inches of personal space she’d created. She would never be able to live down falling off a horse twice in one day in his presence after she’d practically boasted her riding prowess.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were at the infirmary in minutes, Aegon having carried a visibly uncomfortable and disgruntled Arya in his arms from the horse to the cot she now sat on. He knelt on the ground before her, a bandage for her knee in his hand. “How does it feel?” he asked. He took her left foot in his hand and began unlacing her shoe.

“Like I said before. It’s fine.”

“We’ll see.” He gently rolled the fabric of her pants up her leg, revealing the red and swollen kneecap. She jerked when he probed it, and feebly attempted to hide the pain. _“‘Fine?’”_

“Alright, maybe I exaggerated,” she murmured, avoiding his eyes.

“You know,” he said as he placed her leg on his shoulder and began unwrapping the fresh bandage, “most Westerosi ladies would be thrilled to have a Targaryen king on his knees in front of them.”

Her stomach flipped and her eyes widened at his lewd implication. “Am I - Am I like most Westerosi ladies? I hate being called a lady! You -” She tried to pull her leg off of his shoulder, but he trapped her calf in his hand before she could.

“It was meant to be a joke, Lady Arya,” he smirked. “No need to get so flustered.” He began winding the bandage around her knee.

She was silent for a moment. “I know.”

“Whatever you say,” he snorted. And then, “So if you truly don’t like being called ‘Lady,’ then what should I call you?”

“Just Arya,” she shrugged.

“But that’s improper.”

“So is wearing breeches to dinner when the king summons you, probably. And making innuendos to an unmarried woman. But here we are.”

“You’re probably right. But fuck it; Lord Connington will be happy to hear we’re on a first name basis,” he said as he tied the final knot around her knee. “Call me Aegon from now on.”


	5. Keeping Rumors Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extremely sorry for the stretch between updates. This first round of finals literally annihilated my schedule. Literally.

Arya could still feel Aegon’s hand around her calf, hours after he had left her in the infirmary to walk back to her rooms herself (she’d insisted that she didn’t need help). She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not because it made her _feel_ something (because it _didn’t_ ), but because she was shocked at the ease with which he spoke to her, the propriety with which he had handled her leg, after such a short time of knowing her.

It gave her ideas.

Did he already consider her a friend? If not, then just how far would she have to push to get him to view her as such, to grant her more privileges, to let her visit her siblings…?

To let her return permanently to Winterfell?

Hell, she’d already convinced him to give her Nee -

_He never did give me Needle,_ she realized, jerking up and out of her bed. She was still as swordless as the day they’d imprisoned her.

She clenched her fists and made her way to Aegon’s chambers, withering the two kingsguards in front of his door with a glare and a scathing _“Out of my way.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

A pantsless, red-faced young woman hissing “You never gave me my sword!” and a kingsguard screaming “Your Grace!” was by far the strangest way he’d been woken up since he arrived at King’s Landing.

“Lady Arya is -!”

Aegon raised a hand. “It’s alright. Arya doesn’t mean to hurt me,” he yawned, sincerely hoping it was true. (From the harsh angle of her eyebrows, it didn’t seem so.) “Leave us.”

“Are… are you sure, Your Grace?”

He was most definitely not sure, but he said he was, and ordered the guard outside.

“If it isn’t Arya the Slow Rider,” he said. When he sat up in his bed, the covers slipped to uncover his bare chest. And it didn’t escape his notice that Arya’s eyes momentarily flickered to the muscle there and then back to his face. He felt a smirk coming on, but hid it by getting out of bed and turning his back toward her in search of a shirt. As he found one on the floor and pulled it over his head, he said, “What happened to your pants?”

“My -?” she looked down, seemingly realizing for the first time that only a tunic covered her body, falling a few inches below her waistline. When she caught his gaze resting on the bandaged knee he’d wrapped for her, her face turned redder than he’d ever seen it. She tried to pull the shirt down a little, but it only exposed her collarbone and threatened to reveal more, so she gave up struggling and left it as it was. “I must have forgotten them in my haste.”

“What was so urgent that made you forget a pair of pants and travel all the way to my chambers first thing in the morning?”

She crossed her arms. “You didn’t uphold your side of the deal. I went riding with you, so now you have to give me Needle.”

“Oh,” he said, putting a palm to his forehead. He still hadn’t thought of how to convince Connington to give him the sword. “Needle. I completely forgot about it after you hurt your knee.”

She made her way across the room until she stood a foot away from the king. “Well you’d better get it soon, Aegon,” she said, clenching her fist in his shirt and pulling. He gasped when their foreheads met. “Or I’ll find it myself. And if I find it before you give it to me, what I do to you will be so _painful_ that -”

At the sound of the door opening, Arya pushed away from Aegon and turned to see who was in the doorway.

“I - my apologies, Your Grace,” stammered a kingsguard after taking in their proximity, Arya’s fingers lingering on Aegon’s chest, her bare legs.

Aegon practically shoved her away from him, not able to meet the man’s eyes. “It was nothing, trust me.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing. We’ll be just a minute.”

The flustered kingsguard mumbled something about “Take your time” and “Your Grace” and slammed the door shut, leaving them alone again.

“Shit,” he murmured.

“What?” Arya asked.

“He’s one of Jon’s whisperers, I’m pretty sure. Now he’s going to go and tell him that he saw us together.”

“But we weren’t doing anything,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Well, first of all, it’s practically the crack of dawn. And second, you don’t have any -” he waved frantically in the direction of her legs, “fucking - _pants_ on. And third, while _I_ know that you were whispering death threats to me, I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that it probably looked like something else to him.”

“Still not seeing the problem. Just…” she drew a finger across her neck. _Kill him._

“How about instead of _that,”_ he said, reaching for a pair of breeches in his wardrobe and lobbing them at Arya, “you put these on, and walk out of here. I’ll have your sword to you by the end of the week. I’ll take care of the kingsguard.”

"You do realize I'm still walking out of here with your pants on."

"But at least you'll have  _pants."_

"Fair enough."

Everyone on the continent remembered well what happened the last time a Targaryen fell for a Stark. Rumors about the new Targaryen king and the younger Stark girl was exactly the opposite of what Aegon needed, especially because they weren’t true.

_And they never will be,_ he resolved. _We are no more than friends._


	6. Reunion of Sorts

Aegon sighed as he watched Arya dash out of the chamber in his pants to who knows where, officially convinced that she was _actually_ mental. Who the fuck went running around pantsless into other people’s rooms at the crack of dawn, besides the insane? The pair he’d given her were recognizably designed for men, but she wore men’s clothes so often, probably no one would notice.

He took a seat on the edge of his bed, wondering just how she’d gotten past the guards outside his room. Considering the death grip and murderous glare she’d sicced on him minutes ago, it didn’t take much imagination.

_What I do to you will be so_ painful _that_ … What? What was she going to threaten to him, her king? (Whom, granted, she had little reason to respect.) He was thinking that he’d have to ask her when he heard a knock at his door.

“Lord Connington for you, Your Grace,” announced one of his guards.

“Oh.” He looked up at the door. “Let him in,” he called.

Jon walked in and closed the door behind him. “Aegon. Just the man I was looking for.”

“Jon. What can I do for you?”

“Would you care to explain what in all the seven hells,” he began, stepping further into the room, “the Stark girl is wearing.” It was phrased as a question, expressed as a statement.

“Um.” Aegon cleared his throat. “My pants?”

“Aegon. You are the king; I’m not going to deny you any… urges you feel. But for the sake of the Seven, keep it discreet. We’re at court now, it will not do to -”

Aegon barked a laughed. “ _Urges?_ For Arya Stark? We’ve just barely gotten on a first-name basis. She was only wearing my pants because she forgot hers on her way to my chamber,” he said. He realized a second after he said the words that they didn’t help his case in the absolute slightest. “I only meant, she was in a rush to see me this morning, so she only realized after she -”

“I don’t need the details, Your Grace. Just keep her out of your pants.”

_Literally, or…?_

He shut down the thought. She was so wild, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to bed her. For some reason, the phrase came to mind again: _What I do to you will be so_ painful _that -_

_Aegon, NO._ “That really won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Jon turned to leave.

“Wait, before I forget. Whatever happened to Lady Arya’s sword?”

He stopped in his tracks. “Lady Arya’s… oh. Check the armory. Why?”

“She wants it back. She’s been kept hostage here for what, three, four moons? Don’t you think she’s earned it?”

“An unpredictable, trouble-causing woman who sulks around, rides horses and wears men’s clothing, and visits your rooms uninvited without pants on…. No.”

It was stupid that Jon’s argument relied primarily on Arya being a woman who didn’t act like one (whatever ‘acting like a woman’ was supposed to encompass), so Aegon countered,“You’re the one who said to make her happy here.”

Jon considered. After a few moments, he said, “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when uses it to chop off your manhood.”

“Lady Arya?” Aegon gave a wry smile. “She would never.”

* * *

In one of the rare but increasingly often moments she was out of her rooms enjoying the yards of the Red Keep, Aegon caught her. As he approached her shady spot under a lone tree, he said, “So, I think Connington is convinced we’re sleeping together.”

_“Oh?”_ Arya looked up at him from where she lounged in the grass, not knowing whether to find it hilarious or mortifying. “Well, I _am_ still wearing your pants. And I was when I passed him on the way back from your rooms.” She was about to ask him what he wanted when she noticed the slim package he held. “What’s that in your hands?”

“It’s for you. I found it in the _armory,_ ” he said, quirking his eyebrows. He thrust it toward her, and she took it.

Even before she undid the wrappings, she knew what it was. _Needle._ “Thank you,” she whispered, more to the blade than to Aegon.

“What? Didn’t catch that,” Aegon smirked.

She pushed herself to her feet. Flung her arms tight around his neck in a hug neither of them anticipated. “I thank you _ever_ so kindly, Your Magnanimous Benevolent Sacred Grace,” she monotoned into the dip between his shoulder and his neck.

“Your Grace!” one of the servants whose voice she recognized was calling Aegon from across the yard.

Arya let her arms fall from Aegon’s shoulders.

“A raven from Winterfell, addressed to His Grace, Aegon Targaryen,” said the servant, producing a direwolf-sealed envelope and handing it to his king as he made his way toward them. Knots of apprehension formed in Arya’s belly at the addresser. Could something be wrong?

“Thank you,” Aegon said. The servant bowed and disappeared at his dismissal. Aegon’s eyes flew down the letter.

“What is it?” Arya asked, trying to angle herself so she could see what it said, but she was too short.

He met her eyes, a small, genuine smile forming on his lips. “Your sister is getting married to Willas Tyrell in two moons.”

She couldn’t help it; her face broke into a grin. Sansa had always been borderline obsessed with the Tyrell looks, and could definitely make whichever man she married happy. It was a good match. And Arya would be there for such an important moment in her sister’s life. “That’s wonderful,” she said.

“It is,” Aegon agreed. Later on, he told her that they would leave for Highgarden in a few weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be slightly out of GoT/ASoIaF-world-character that Aegon would notice that Jon condescends to Arya because of her non-binary medieval feminine expression but I included it anyway because ayyyeee FEMINISM.  
> also, I don't actually know the distance between the red keep and highgarden so imma just wing it :DDD


	7. Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are a bitch. But they're over now, so naturally more of everyone's time can be dedicated to this ship.

Arya seemed… more pleased than usual. Which was to say, she didn’t audibly growl when someone irritated her, and she was seen out of her rooms more than once a week by more than one person. Aegon had even caught her smiling once - a genuine smile, as opposed to a smirk or a forced pleasantry - but she snuffed it as soon as she saw him looking.

She looked so much better that way. Not that she looked bad when she was frowning. Or that she looked bad at all…. An image of her bare legs flashed in his mind’s eye, the endearing flush that had bloomed on her cheeks.

But Arya was one among thousands of women who looked pretty when they flushed or smiled. And definitely one of the few he’d ever seen fight with a sword, let alone look good while doing it.

He’d taken note of her as soon as he stepped into the yard outside the throne room. She was practicing against the knights in the yard, swinging at and sidestepping her opponent with ease. He became close enough to hear the man cry for mercy as she sent him to the ground, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She was so graceful, intense, focused, and -

“If you have something to say, say it,” she panted, turning to Aegon as she helped the knight up. “If you don’t, go away.”

Graceful, intense, focused, and… irritable, as always.

He bristled. Then he said, “I’m the king; I go where I want.”

“I find it hard to believe that His Grace really wants to be in the middle of a yard watching sweaty people swing sharp things at each other,” she sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears and facing him.

“Well, _you_ want to be here.”

“Yes, but I’m not just standing around. Unlike you."

“Are you suggesting I challenge someone?"

"Do what you want," Arya shrugged.

"Your excitement for the wedding has made you cocky.”

Arya scoffed, affronted. "I am _not_ cocky."

"Prove it."

She addressed the knights in the yard: "Who will be the first to offer their king his sword? He has a fight to lose."

The nearest man extended his wooden weapon, and everyone cleared a circle of space for them.

Arya surprised him with the first lunge, but he countered easily. They slashed at and danced around each other for all of a couple minutes, and then she feinted, and he missed what would have been a winning strike. Using his momentum against him, she pushed him face-first on the ground. When flipped himself to his back, her swordpoint was in his face. She looked down at him impatiently, like she’d predicted an easy win from the beginning (which she probably had), and their audience snickered. “Are we done?”

Aegon ignored the hand she offered and pushed himself to standing. He’d had years of practice in the Free Cities as Young Griff; he could do this. "Best two out of three."

"If it please Your Grace." She drew her sword again, motioning him to come at her.

"Wait. Let's add stakes."

Arya frowned; he didn't think he could _win_ against her, did he? "There's no point."

"Scared?"

Her frown deepened. "No. List your terms."

"If I win, you have to..." he took a moment to think of what would make her the most uncomfortable, "save a dance for me at your lady sister's wedding." Yep, that definitely made her feel some sort of anxiety, judging by the way her nose crinkled at the suggestion.

"And if I win, I don't have to talk to you at all during the wedding."

"Fine."

He didn’t give her a chance to prepare for his attack. He advanced with charged determination, his sword slashing against hers with such force that she felt it coursing through her arm up to her shoulder. She put up a good fight for a while, but his swordpoint finally met her neck. “I win.”

Their final match traveled around the yard in parries, slashes, and strikes. She studied him as she fought, waited patiently for his defense to falter. And when it did, once they were both sweating and out of breath, she swiped her foot across his legs. He landed on his ass.

“Are we done _now_ , Aegon -?”

She didn’t feel his foot hook around hers until after she was on the ground beside him. He climbed on top of her, pinning her pelvis to the ground with his knees. He wrenched her sword from her hand and tossed it yards away. Then he allowed the edge of his own sword to trace her brow. “Yes, Arya. We’re done.” He gave her a smug little smile. “I’ll be looking forward to dancing with you.”


	8. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am fully aware of the ATROCIOUS amount of time that has passed between the last update and now, and sorry! I've been dedicating 100% of my creativity/energy to my original book since school ended. I'll try to update once every 1-2 weeks from now on.

“Sit _still_. You’re going to upset Sansa.” Arya's favorite brother-turned-cousin laid a steadying hand on Arya’s forearm. She had been fidgeting from the moment she sat down at the dinner table.

Arya looked down the table to where her sister sat between Willas and Margaery. Radiant, grown, content. “Sansa is happy with her husband right now; nothing I do can upset her. And besides, I’m perfectly still.”

“You’re not,” Jon insisted. “You’ve been acting nervous since the ceremony ended. And you keep on looking at him.”

Of their own accord, Arya’s eyes flicked to the table adjacent and caught Aegon’s. The king smirked, waved.

“You see! You just did it again,” Jon said.

Arya looked sharply back at her plate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do realize that lying about looking at His Grace doesn’t make me any less suspicious, right?”

“You do realize that you’re acting stupid, right?”

Before Jon could retort, the quartet started playing. The Bear and the Maiden Fair.

Aegon was standing from his seat. _Fuck._

Jon snickered, noticing his sister noticing the king _again_ after lying about it to his face. “You’re so full of it, Arya.”

“Shut. Up.” She glared again at her plate.

“He’s coming over here.”

“Jon, I’m going to say it again: Shut. Up.”

“But he’s literally -”

“Lady Arya.”

She looked up; Aegon stood on the other side of the table. “Can I help you?” Jon slammed his foot down on Arya’s under the table. She cleared her throat. _“Your Grace?”_

“I believed I was promised a dance.”

Jon had a sudden coughing fit that sounded oddly like a laugh. “Go on, Lady Arya, don’t let the man wait.”

She suddenly felt the need to cough as well, and it oddly sounded like _“Fuck you.”_

But she stood, walked around the table, and accepted Aegon’s hand. “That’s the spirit.”

Arya had a feeling that both the king and Jon would laugh about this moment for the rest of eternity.

Aegon led her to the floor. “You _can_ dance, right?”

“How do you think I got so good at fighting?”

“Fair enough.” He wound his right hand in her left, and placed his other on her shoulder. “By the way, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.” It was the truth. He was, of course, wearing the Targaryen black and red, clothes tailored in the perfect cut to show off his figure and suggest at his musculature. His face was clean-shaven as well. Not that she didn’t think a little scruff could be sexy. He just had the kind of jaw that suited both looks.

She was staring, Arya realized. She needed to start talking before his face made her lose every train of thought she had. “So, I hope this was all you imagined and more. Because this song is the opposite of exciting.” Just as she said it, the tempo quickened. He pressed her closer to him, so she could feel the hardness of his chest against hers. “Is that really necessary?”

“The dance calls for it,” he grinned. He took the lead, spinning her around the floor in careless circles she could barely follow.

“You’re going to get us killed,” she half-shouted, the music and speed significantly drowning out what they could hear.

“As if this isn’t the most fun you’ve had all night.” His lips brushed her ear.

They didn’t realize how much time had passed until someone called out for the bedding to begin. They stopped, out of breath, dizzy, and sweaty, to join the masses around Sansa and Willas. Bits of clothing flew here and there, and the couple was carried out of the main hall.

“So,” Arya felt someone nudge her in her side. Jon. “Did you save a dance for me?”

“Of course.”

Her hands went on his shoulders and his around her waist. “I didn’t realize you and the king were so… acquainted.”

“Yes. _Acquainted,_ Jon,” she stressed. “Acquainted enough to know he’s annoying as all hell.”

“Doesn’t seem like that to me.”

Across the floor, she found Aegon taking Margaery’s hand for a dance. “Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me you’re not looking at him right now.”

Arya scoffed, drawing her eyes back to Jon. “What, so now I can’t look at him?”

“I’m just saying.”

* * *

Lord Connington smiled at Aegon as he returned to his table. “I hope you enjoyed your time with Lady Margaery.”

“Yes,” Aegon said, brow furrowing slightly. “Why?”

“I’ve been talking with Lord Tyrell.”

“Let me guess: marriage alliance?”

**“Marriage alliance.”**


End file.
